


Opalescent

by xworldofartemisx



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Also Remus related sexual content (nothing explicit), Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Angst, Bittersweet, Cliffhangers, Colors, Conflict, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Deceit | Janus Sanders Angst, Doubt, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I cried while writing this, I hurt all my boys and i do not stop, I live off of angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Like there are some nice moments, Logic | Logan Sanders Angst, Morality | Patton Sanders Angst, Music, Pain, Remus related gore and blood, Sad Ending, Symbolism, The Mind, The Room, The typoe of fic you read because you want to f e e l, This is a good one for those in need of a good 2am angstfest, Uncertainty, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved, and shoves you right back into the p a i n, and you're like aww, but then the angst train returns, i'm to tired for regret, lyrics, post pof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xworldofartemisx/pseuds/xworldofartemisx
Summary: opalescent /əʊpəˈlɛs(ə)nt/,adjective, showing many small points of shifting color against a pale or dark ground.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	1. Caught In The Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing here but shades of black.

As he drags his bare feet across the soft grey carpet that spreads throughout the Mind, Virgil basks in the silence that bathes Thomas' sleeping brain in peace.

With everyone else either sleeping or closed off in their rooms, finishing up work, the Mind is vacant enough for him not to be caught seeking refuge from blinding lights and suffocating warmth.

They say old habits are hard to get rid of.

Virgil never took the saying to heart until he experienced it on his skin.

Despite having his family now and finally finding his peace, he found himself taking advantage of the emptiness of night to sneak out of the Mind Palace and into the dark abyss of thought more and more frequently as time went on.

There's a door in front of him and he jumps when his hand touches the handle, jumping back.

One push is all it would take.

He could infiltrate the Imagination, a dream, fear seeping in like violet ink, staining Roman's iridescent creation with a memory better left repressed or a face long forgotten. A monster of shadows and vicious cackles could chase after Thomas so he'd wake up in a cold sweat wondering why the creature had reminded him of that one moment he never speaks of. Maybe he could push Thomas off the top of a building, giggling softly when he hears Remus bark out a laugh somewhere from the shadows nearby.

One step more and he could sneak into Patton's garden, fiddling with the frail glimmering petals of memories leaving black fingerprints on the pale pink of the flowers so that they may never be looked back on without unexplainable dread.

Yet another step further and he could saunter into Logan's library. He could temper with his books, tear out a few pages, blur the lines and smudge the letters, relishing in the confusion on Logic's face when he opens them.

All it would take is one more step and he’d find himself in the sewing room.

The wall right in front of him would be covered by floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight trickling in despite it being 3 am in the real world. The other three walls would be painted a gentle peachy color, still bright but pink enough not to be blinding like white.

The door would disappear as soon as he walked in but Virgil would feel no fear. He’d know he could turn around and it’d be there the moment he wanted it to.

There would be a gramophone on a coffee table just before the velvet sofa, playing jazz just loud enough to be audible but not enough to be distracting.

And he’d be there no doubt, the only one still at his station, hands ungloved, running silky yellow fabric through the machine, the rhythmic click of it a nice addition to the music.

Only when he was finished and the Fabrication was hung neatly on the hanger on the wall, would he look at Virgil.

He’d give half a smile, place an elegant finger under his chin, and then he’d sit back down at the machine, grabbing another shapeless sheet of fabric, seemingly not caring Virgil was there.

But when he turned around, there’d be a pair of headphones on the table and a mug of hot chocolate.

He sits on the floor at some point, head hanging low, knees tucked up to his chest and he just breathes.

Breathes in the dust in the air and the way it smells of nothing, the way the tepid air feels like nothing, how the grey walls and carpet look like nothing.

Nothing.

There’s nothing here but shades of black.

He looks at his sleeves in disgust. The purple seems so violent, so bright against the monochrome background.

A piece of soft black fabric falls into his lap, startling him. The checkered pattern is as familiar as the yellow-clad hand that dropped it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” He growls.

Janus’ figure remains steady, the sway on his feet nonchalant and purposeful as he shrugs. “I don’t know. Try looking at it.”

For whatever reason, Virgil complies, glancing down at the hoodie the softness of which he’d forgotten. It brings back memories.

Sensing his confusion as he always did, reading him in that perceptive way that always made Virgil squirm under his gaze, Janus slides down the wall to sit next to him and says, “Look.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “What are you trying to do? Because your tricks won’t work on me.”

Janus’ eyes flutter closed to mask the annoyance, reopening to reveal nothing but the subtle glimmer of a challenge. He repeats, “Look. I can’t manipulate you by making you look at an old hoodie, now can I?”

“I don’t know.”

Janus chuckles and Virgil tries to ignore the fondness of the sound as he looks at the garment in his hands one more time. It’s black and gray and it brings back memories.

It’s black and gray. It brings back memories.

It’s black and gray.

It almost disappears in the grayscale space of the hall.

It fits.

He looks up, eyes damp, shaking his head. “No.”

Janus raises a brow.

“No, you don’t get to do this!”

Hands raised, Janus replies, “I’m not doing anything.”

“Oh, screw you! You know exactly what you’re doing, you selfish asshole! First, you kick me out from the only home I ever knew, and then, when I finally find a new one, you try to get me kicked out of that one too!”

“If you’re afraid of they’ll banish you, then they are not truly your family!” Janus snaps, yanking the hoodie away. “But I was foolish to think it would be easy to teach you anything.”

He turns slowly enough for what’s coming to seem like a coincidence. Virgil stops him. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Lying is bad, Virgil.” He says, not bothering to face him again. “Being afraid is not. But-” He pauses purely for dramatic effect, “It’s not good either, is it?”

Janus saunters off into the darkness, listening to the sound of Virgil’s footsteps echoing down the hall. His chest tightens as they get further away.


	2. Red Is The New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, even though his outfit is black, his sash is still a deep eye-catching shade of red.

Roman hums quietly as he strolls through the Imagination.

The world around him morphs and ripples, shaping itself into the dream he had come up with.

Everything around him, above and beneath him bows down to serve the idea he presented. Every creature follows his script, every tree's branches bend the way he tells them to.

Instead of its usual vibrant colors, the Imagination is painted in a rose gold sunset-like gleam, the edges a bit softer, outlines gently blurred.

This shifting world embraces him, fills his lungs with warm air, the sweet perfume of lilacs carried to him on the breeze. The grass beneath his bare feet is soft and dewy, cushioning his inaudible footsteps.

He picks a berry off a bush, allowing its overwhelming sweetness to wash away the bitterness of betrayal on his tongue.

Everything is perfect and yet it’s not good enough. Because some of the trees glitch back to their original, brighter color and then back to the soft shades he’d imagined and there are Characters giggling and running around, who should not have been there, hiding in the bushes and jokingly infiltrating the dream, simply jealous they hadn’t been chosen for this one.

Though the place is lively and inviting, Roman hates it. It’s not a work of art but a stupid childish fantasy filled with happy friends and glitchy trees.

Roman sees Thomas in the distance, riding a white stallion, sword raised high as a prince, a different one, sits behind him, clinging to his waist in search of protection.

Thomas is a true hero in this one.

But, even though his outfit is black, his sash is still a deep eye-catching shade of red.

Roman can sense Remus is near, lurking somewhere near the entrance, waiting for an opportunity to pounce and rip the serenity of this world to shreds with the deafening screech of a Nightmare.

He shudders as his mind conjures an old memory, a snarl and a pale figure enveloped in darkness and suddenly Thomas was afraid and the prince was a bully, and Thomas was on the ground, struggling to breathe under the boot pressed to his throat and Roman, horrified, had realized too late this was not Remus’ Nightmare. It was a memory only worse because, as it mingled with the remnants of the Dream, it became twisted, vile, and horrible.

He’d never forget the triumphant grin on Anxiety’s face as he proved how much more powerful he was, how much stronger he was than Roman.

Because Roman could do nothing to stop it. All he could do was watch as Thomas writhed in pain, nothing but fear in his bleary eyes that soon closed.

Roman threw up later, unable to chase away the image.

The faceless prince laughs, accepting Thomas' hand to hop off the horse. “You saved me.”

Thomas beams. “And I'd do it all again if it meant I could feel your arms around my waist.”

Roman scoffs.

“You're my hero.”

Roman growls.

There’s a flash of yellow, a warning hiss somewhere just beyond the entrance, but that only settles the determination in Roman’s carved chest.

With a bitter laugh, a wounded sound of sinister rancor, he lets Remus in.

His brother is beside him in a split second, spawning with a horrific scream of vindication. He stares at the scene ahead in distaste.

“Really? Saving a prince in distress? That’s the best you’ve got?”

Roman rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t feeling very creative after…you know what.”

“The gut-wrenching heart-tearing betrayal of realizing you mean nothing to no one and will never have the respect you rightfully deserve?” Remus questions, peppy as ever. “Yeah, I heard.”

Defeated, Roman allows the exhaustion to slip and with it the image of the blurred prince wavers in front of Thomas, glitching in and out of view.

He motions to them and tells Remus, “Knock yourself out.”

The Duke’s eyes glow feral, a disturbing grin splitting his face into a predatory expression as he licks his lips.

Gold melts into grey, the shimmering sun bleeding eery red light onto the ground below, bathing the world in crimson.

The grass beneath Roman’s feet withers as he turns away. The trees drop their leaves, their branches turning into sharp claws that tear away at Roman’s clothes as he pushes through.

Some pierce his skin through the fabric but he doesn’t mind the sting of torn flesh as it chases away the numbness, reminds him that he’s still alive.

Thomas screams.

Under his bare soles, Roman feels the warmth of it pour in, a thick stream of liquid reaching him from the spot where Thomas is no doubt doubled over in agony.

With burning tears pouring down his cheeks, Roman smiles.


	3. With My Green Gloves (Get Inside Their Heads)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very core of his being is different, rotting, spoiled. Green.

Remus washes the blood from his hands, humming a tune he'd made up as he thoroughly scrubs the flaking crimson liquid that had dried on his pale palms.

The red barely shows in the murky waters of the river before mixing with the mud that's carried through the icy stream. Fish float, their bodies rotten and bloated, dismembered bodies pushing a path through them.

Seeing a head float towards him, Remus tries to remember which Construct it had belonged to but between the rotted flesh and gaping cavities instead of eyes, he really can't tell.

Ember, his first creation, stands patiently by his side, observing in silence as he cleans himself up. It's only when he rises back to his feet that she speaks.

“Which one was it today?”

“Oh, I’m not sure.” Remus scratches his chin animatedly. “That prince-looking kid, the blonde one. Roman used him for a dream but then..well, he won't be so dreamy ever again”

A muscle twitches in her cheek. “Number 223. Neither of you ever gave him a proper name.”

“Well, not everyone can be as special as you, can they?” Remus taps a finger against her nose in a way that makes her scrunch up her face in disgust.

“Do that again and I’ll bite your finger off.”

“You do that, and I’ll chomp off your entire arm.”

Ember rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Ah, but I always make sure you regenerate, don't I?”

She nods with practiced indifference. “That you do, can yo-”

Remus raises a finger to shush her, frowning at the tug in the back of his skull, a groping sensation that, for whatever reason, makes him think of how long it had been since they played a nice horror game.

“I gotta skedaddle.” He announces, “Someone’s calling on me.”

Ember’s wave goes unnoticed as he sinks out.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my brother.” Remus greets cartoonishly as he observes the area he rose up in.

It's a wide spacious room with bright lights that are startlingly modern against the gothic church-esque decor and windows. He looks to the left and smirks.

The wall is lined with weapons of all kinds, mostly swords and daggers and at the far end of the room stands Roman, his expression feral, chest heaving.

“Pick your weapon, brother.” He growls, summoning his sword and pointing it at Remus who, with a chuckle, pulls his own off his back.

Metal clashes against metal with a loud clang and breathless grunt as Roman pushes forward, eyes wet and rimmed with red.

“So,” Remus breaths out as he kicks Roman in the knee, causing him to lose his stance, giving Remus room to jab the hilt of his sword into his chest, knocking him to his back. “What’s the occasion?”

Roman quickly manages to get back to his feet, sword still gripped tightly in his shaking hand and he swings, digging the blade into Remus’ shoulder, before he replies, “I need a win.”

Remus winks. “Then you’ve come to the wrong place.”

He gives a cackle before pushing a thought violently into his brother's vulnerable mind. _“You know I'm not the one you want to fight right now. I guess you're just taking it out on me because you're too weak to face the person you really want to stab with that polished sword of yours.”_

Roman grunts angrily and Remus knows all he needs is one last push to truly let loose all that pent up anger and bitterness. He’s more than happy to provide.

_“How does it feel, knowing they’d sooner listen to me than you? That they’d rather side with us? We’re the bad guys Roman and yet, we’re still winning.”_

The back and forth is endless as they twist elegantly, dancing between attack and defense, the air around them thrumming with something akin to the steady buzz of balance.

Remus lets him win.

He doesn't plan to nor want to for the better part of an hour until he has Roman pinned to the wall, blade to his neck and he feels how his brother trembles. Looking at him, Remus notes the paleness and the sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He sees and expression he'd only ever observed in the mirror, of wild unfocused eyes, hair dampened by sweat and skin so sickly it's almost green.

And he allows himself to be pushed back, to enjoy feeling the pain instead of inflicting it.

Roman shows no hesitation in taking full advantage of that decision.

“Roman’s gone again.” Virgil announces, plopping down on the couch next to Logan.

“That much was to be expected.” Logan frowns. “Did you talk to Patton?”

“I tried.” Virgil sighs, “But he wouldn’t say much. He told me not to worry, that Roman would return before I knew it. I could tell he was lying. What if Deceit’s got Roman in his clutches and he’s manipulating him into something? What if Remus hurt him? What if he’s actually planning on ducking out? What if something’s seriously wrong with him, Logan?”

A cold hand on his cheek urges Virgil to turn and look at Logan.

And in Logan's eyes, he finds galaxy of stars upon a canvas of dark brown.

“Everything will be okay, Virgil. Overthinking isn’t going to get us anywhere. The best thing we can do for Roman is to calm down, wait to see what happens and then act accordingly.”

Virgil nods, still dazed by the intensity of that intelligent gaze, “Thanks, Lo.”

“Anytime, Virgil.” Logan barely registers himself whispering, focused entirely on the greenish-purple glimmer in Virgil’s eyes he hasn’t noticed before.

Virgil moves back then, tugging down his sleeve and clearing his throat. He repeats, “Thanks.”

And then he’s gone.

Logan remembers it might be a good idea to speak to Remus. He might know something more about Roman’s disappearance.

He sets off to do just that right away, exiting the Mindscape and traversing in the direction of the Dark Side’s corner.

The halls are long, winding, more and more confusing as he passes the Center of the Mind.

Various doors appear and disappear, thoughts swimming and floating by him in search of a home.

Logan finds unexpected solace in the evergrowing darkness around him as he passes the ethereal glow of the center and moves toward the farthest corners of Thomas' mind.

On the very opposite end from the Light, reside the Dark Sides.

After a curt knock, he walks into their ‘apartment’, almost a perfect replica of his own home only with a few different choices in décor such as the terrarium of snakes and the yellow roses on the table as well as the paintings depicting various murder scenes that line the walls.

“Hello?” He calls out.

It’s disappointment that makes him taste something bitter when it’s Janus who rises up. “Yes?”

“Hello, Deceit.” It’s a low blow and Logan knows it, not to use Janus’ name when he’s learned it, but there’s undeniable jealousy swirling in that pit of loneliness, clouding his judgment.

If Janus is hurt, he doesn’t let it show, instead waving a hand for Logan to follow him up the stair. He points to the door at the end of the hall. “If he's not in his room, try the Imagination.”

Logan gives no thanks as he struts forward, pushing through the reluctance and opens Remus’ door.

With a roll of his eyes, Janus leaves him to it.

“Remus? Are you here?”

Said Side twirls around to face Logan in bewilderment. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite dork.”

“I need to ask you a few questions and then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Please, do join me on the bed.” Remus beckons him over, extending a pale hand in surprising elegance and, unsure why, Logan takes it, allowing Remus to drag him forward and push him to sit on the tousled black sheets. “Ask away.”

“I was wondering if you could re-tell to me the events of this afternoon when Roman's dream became…corrupted.“

Remus shrugs. “There’s not much to tell. He invited me and told me to knock myself out. So I did. Also knocked Thomas out. And that prince Character. It was great!”

Logan hums. “I see.”

“He invited me again a few hours later.” Remus continues, busying himself with cleaning the blood off his sword. “And he was a WRECK! It was the best thing I've ever seen. He looked devastated! So we sparred. And I let him beat me.”

With a wink, he adds, “I like a little pain sometimes.”

“He hurt you? What did he do?”

Remus observes Logan for a moment, his expression unreadable before answering at last, “It’s fine, I’m fine. It’s no worse than things I’ve done to him.“

“Remus.” They are both surprised by the calm strength Logan’s voice exudes at that moment as well as his gaze at it locks with Remus’. “You haven’t answered my question. What did he do to you?”

“Nothing! He just got all up in my personal space and squeezed my shoulders real tight and he chopped me up a bit with his sword. I can show you the bruises if you want!”

Until that moment, Logan never knew how truly horrifying the expression of someone smiling while their eyes were brimming with tears could be.

It’s when he demands, “Show me,” that Remus lets the façade crack for a moment, inhaling sharply through his nose before he grins again, his shirt flying to the floor.

Logan barely registers his toned chest or the dark hair twisting around his prominent abs, focusing instead on the purple fingerprints pressed into his shoulders and the disgusting trails of dried up blood on his chest sticking the hair together. And the wounds could barely be described as such. They're erratic swings of a sword, uncoordinated slashes and wild stabs causing gaping holes in Remus' body.

“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, it’s fine, Lo-llipop! It hurts no more than the injuries I’ve caused to myself.”

Logan frowns. “Sure, but this is different. You didn’t do this to yourself, someone else did.”

Remus summons his shirt back on. He grabs Logan’s hand, holding on a bit too tightly but Logan lets him, squeezing back just as tight.

“Any other questions?” Remus is the one to let go.

“Oh. Oh, right, yes. Just one more. Roman’s gone missing again and I was wondering if you knew where he could’ve gone.”

Remus’ eyes narrow as he thinks, darting left to right as he scans his jumbled thoughts in search of any information he could have about Roman. At last, he shrugs. “I dunno. But if he’s not with you guys, my guess is he’s in the Imagination.”

Logan is already at the door when he turns one last time to find Remus cradling his shoulder, like wounded panther nursing its wounds, so delicately in pain and yet brimming with strength and power.

His eyes flash a piercing green and the bruises fade, leaving nothing but barely visible spots here and there.

He does the same to the wounds. All save for one, the deep gash right above his rotten heart. He pushes a finger into that one and, with a disgusting squelch, he watches as green begins to leak out. It's blood but worse. A reminder that not even his flesh is like the others. The very core of his being is different, rotting, spoiled. Green.

Logan says, “Remus? Just because you’re tough enough to handle something doesn’t mean you have to.”

He leaves before he can hear the response but he does feel a tingle in the back of his head as he's walking away and he can’t help but laugh out loud as the thought of a very nude Remus lying on silky green sheets infiltrates his mind. He hears a whisper somewhere, a thought not quite his own. _“My way of saying thanks. Feel free to think of it again but just know…every time it pops up into your head I’ll know and I’ll be thinking of you too, in an even more inviting position.”_

The flush of heat is not entirely unpleasant. Logan clings to it as he heads back home, knowing soon it’ll fade and he’ll be empty again.

But it’s for the best. Better to be numb than irrational.

It’s for the best.


	4. Nothing But A Shade Of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton's favorite color is blue.

Despite Patton's love for and the comfort of the house Roman had created for them, a replica of Thomas' own but not quite the same, Logan often found himself missing their original residence.

The Room.

A simple name for a place so wonderfully complex.

It's one door at the end of a solitary hallway. Logan has a key for his library, Patton a little pendant, heart-shaped of course, to press into the lock and Roman a marvelously crafted golden key for a golden gate. Virgil doesn't need a key. He wanders freely through the entirety of the Room.

He's not certain about Janus and supposes Remus has a way to enter similar to Roman's.

Logan was always calmed by this, going over facts he's sure of, reassuring himself of the things he knows

It's a pass time and a way to stay grounded, stay focused.

Pulling the key, a simple metal object, ordinary and nothing more than useful, out of his pocket, he opens the door with a soft click.

The smell of paper is welcoming as he enters his library.

Thinking of text pop-ups and video games, he sits at the computer in the corner and opens the only document saved on the device.

It's a jumbled mess of text and pictures, Powerpoint and Word mushed together in a mess of information Thomas had learned throughout the week.

Everything from noticing a new type of flower to actually learning a fact is crammed into this document in the form of pictures, words and links.

Sighing and adjusting his glasses, Logan begins to unravel the mess, retyping and readjusting the information into a coherent piece of knowledge.

He emails the photo of the flower along with a friend's new shirt Thomas liked to Patton to store into the nostalgic part of Thomas' memory while the new knowledge on editing and the skill of using new software to do so remains in his document.

It takes a few hours to sift through the information but, at last, Logan finishes and turns the computer off in two practiced clicks, moving away in his desk chair in a motion just as rehearsed.

He'll have enough material soon to print a new book and store it into the long-term memory shelves that line the walls and zig-zag through the large room.

Thomas is planning to film again tomorrow, without the Sides. It'll just be him and Gavin guessing some anime.

So, instead of the crime mystery waiting unopened in his room, Logan picks out a bright purple book from one of the shelves titled _'Video Information and Related Memory'_ and goes to refresh their knowledge of anime and which ones they'd already guessed in a previous episode.

It's dull and brain-numbing but Logan reminds himself it is what must be done. It'll improve the quality of the video.

With Roman in no state to create they've been rehashing old ideas more and more often focusing on making new episodes of old series.

Logan supposes it's better than nothing though he misses the times where Thomas and him would sit in front of Thomas' laptop researching for hours to bring to life one of Roman's new ideas, brilliant but unpolished as always.

If someone were to write out his thoughts this particular evening, Logan thinks, they would read like an info dump on the Mind and the Room and Thomas.

As if his thoughts are no more than an excuse to tell the reader all they need to know before proceeding to learn about the Sides who are more interesting, who have a purpose beyond knowing.

It's a useless useful skill to have and though it's a paradox Logan wonders how he understands its meaning, how he knows exactly what being uselessly useful means.

The book's cover is black but the title is blue, his desk chair is black but its handles blue. His shirt is black but his tie is blue.

Patton's favorite color is blue.

And everyone loves Patton.

So, maybe, a little blue to break the bleakness would make everyone love him too, he thought once, foolishly.

Now he knows it's not the existence of blue on Patton that makes them adore him. It's the absence of black.


	5. Baby Blue (He Doesn't Love You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But if Patton had a vest hung over the chair by the bed then that was allowed to be his little yellow secret and if the craftsman noticed it was his to keep.

The laundry room was something entirely unnecessary in the Sides' house and yet Patton loved Roman for making it.

It was a cozy little corner of the house, the floors a light shade of brown and the walls a soft pink. There was a washing machine at the end and a dryer beside it. The walls were lined with cupboards and a closet by the door.

The cupboards were for clutter mostly, and things that weren’t needed often and the closet was for the rarely worn clothes, outfits other than their sleepwear and ‘signature’ outfits.

There was, however, a bottom compartment to the closet whose doors were sealed with a little heartshaped lock.

Only a glowing amber eye could locate the key and only gloved hands could gently caress the soft click out of the lock. Inside were various articles of clothing, all from lovely materials and all just homemade enough to be barely noticeable, recognizable for the scale-like stitching and an overwhelming abundance of the color yellow.

From cardigans to scarfs, this little compartment held clothing to be reserved for only the coldest nights and the most dreadful of crisis.

Each of the items held a special purpose: comfort, confidence, happiness.

It was a dangerous design, crafted by a dangerous but skilled seamster.

Patton would never let anyone near it, wouldn’t allow his family to ever come into a situation in which they had to wear yellow.

But if Patton had a vest hung over the chair by the bed then that was allowed to be his little yellow secret and if the craftsman noticed it was his to keep.

And if sometimes that vest was arms wrapping around him and it was purple rather than a lovely shade of dodie yellow than the craftsman would watch with a heavy heart because, despite creating it for this very purpose, he wished yellow could be comforting enough, wished it needn’t be soiled by dark and imposing violet.

Patton waters the Memories with care after Logan sends him the email.

It’s a peculiar thing, an email arriving in a little envelope, information typed by calloused fingers arriving in the shape of seeds.

Patton has to smile at the wonders of the Mind.

Some sprout immediately after they touch the dirt, all gentle leaves and frail colorful flowers. Others need a little care to grow and be remembered.

Some are trees already never to be cut down while others are breakable daisies ripped at the roots by the slightest disturbance.

Patton sways to the music coming through his headphones, paying little attention to the lyrics until the brief silence signaling a new song is about to play.

As it begins, he stops his cheerful dance in favor of sitting on the little bench by the entrance to the greenhouse and closes his eyes.

This one isn’t for dancing.

When it comes to this particular song, Patton always just listens and he feels.

_Patience, shadow. While you're sick, there's no sight to see.  
Little shadow, little shadow.  
To the night, will you follow me?  
Pardon, shadow, hold on tight to your darkened key.  
Little shadow, little shadow.  
To the night, will you follow me?_

_Closer, shadow, volume strikes, still we're cut free  
of this song, little shadow  
To the night, will you follow me?  
Hey, shadow, stars, break of dawn, take a turn for stars, to my fantasy  
Little shadow, to the night, will you follow me?  
Little shadow, to the night, will you follow me?_

The final note rings out as one last tear untangles itself from Patton's eyelashes, sliding down his cheek until it's caught by a gloved thumb, soaked into the yellow fabric like it was never even there.

“Janus?”

“Good evening, Patton.”

“Hi.”

“Music has the most peculiar effect on emotions, doesn’t it.” He invites himself to sit down and crosses one long leg over the other, hands entwined in his lap. For a moment he stays like that, chin up and back straight until Patton offers him one headphone and the phone.

He slumps against the bench then, placing his hat neatly beside him, and accepts the offered items with a relieved sigh.

“Long day?” Patton asks.

Janus nods. “You have no idea.”

“I might.”

Taking note of the song Patton had listened to that made him cry, Janus searches for a moment, Patton’s eyes and then Spotify, before settling for a song and tapping the play button.

_So now you want the whole world to notice that you've come around,  
Now you expect,  
We'll see how you're really so much better now,  
But I know the truth, I won't waste my youth_

_On a cad and a bounder, a dog and a cheap  
All the lives that you've had, all the hearts you eat  
You're a rascal and a rogue, a villain and a crook  
Still, I tug at your line, I'm a fish on your hook  
I should be better, but I'm worse_

_What's the point pretending that you could be a better man  
Just give in, since you always end up right back where you began  
Still, I know the truth, but I have a sweet tooth for a_

_Cad and a bounder, a dog and a cheap  
All the lives that you've had, all the hearts you eat  
You're a rascal and a rove, a villain and a crook  
Still, I tug at your line, I'm a fish on your hook  
You're rash and you're hasty  
You're reckless with my heart, still, I wait by the phone  
I will never get smart  
I should be better, but I'm worse_

_For a cad and a bounder, a dog and a cheap  
All the lives that you've had, all the hearts you eat  
You're a rascal and a rove, a villain and a crook  
Still, I tug at your line, I'm a fish on your hook  
You're rash and you're hasty  
You're reckless with my heart, still, I wait by the phone  
I will never get smart  
I should be better, but I'm worse_

Patton rips out the headphone rather quickly, forgetting all about his phone and the headphones and the Memories that still need to be watered as he mutters a quick: “I need to go do laundry!”

“You’ll have to face it at some point, Patton.” Janus calls after him and he stops in the doorway.

His voice, monotone and so quiet, sends a shiver down Janus’ spine as he replies, “At some point. Not tonight. Tonight, I do laundry.”

Eyes narrowing in distaste, Janus places his hat back on his head, straightens out his clothes and then picks up the watering can.

He hums quietly as he waters the remaining flowers.

_You know that I can hear you thinking  
I've heard you all the way from here  
But if I look you in the eye though  
It's like your thoughts all disappear  
I know you're looking for direction  
And I know, I know, I know  
I know where you wanna' go  
Oh, I do, but do you?_

_Have you turned a corner?  
Do you think of leaving me behind?  
Please don't turn the light out  
  
_

_I don't think the conversation's over_


	6. All This Bastard Amber (It Never Meant A Thing To Anybody)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The filling is an eery shade of red.

Remus staggers into the dimly lit living room, the blood dripping from his clothes staining the carpet.

Janus grimaces. “How many times have I told you to clean off before you come back?”

“I do what I want, bitch.” Remus makes a point of shaking himself off like a dog, blood splattering the walls and furniture, a scarlet droplet reaching Janus’ cheek.

Wiping it off with the pad of his thumb, Janus growls. “You don’t want to sass me. Bitch.”

“No? What’re you gonna do? Send me to my room? Are you gonna ground me? You gonna take my phone away, _mommy_? Hm?”

Silence overtakes them.

Remus is wild, he’s untameable. Remus doesn’t give two shits about Janus’ feelings or anyone’s for that matter. Remus would discorporate him where he stands if he wanted to. Remus is an asshole.

Remus isn’t stupid.

And Remus knows that a quiet Janus is a tired one and he knows a tired Janus is a dangerous one. One who’ll gut you first and ask questions later. When Janus is quiet not even the gods above can decipher what’s happening in his mind.

Sometimes Remus thinks it might be even more twisted than his own, in a different way.

Giving one last blood-spattering shimmy for good measure, he sinks out.

The sewing room is his safe haven. It’s warm enough and bright enough. In it, he’s enough.

Tonight, though, he doesn’t feel like sitting at the machine and twisting silky fabric into breathtaking clothes. No, tonight is a different kind of night.

He grunts as he yanks out a box from the top of his shelf.

Sitting on the small sofa by the wall, he puts the box on the coffee table.

He stares at it for a while, until he’s ready and he peels the lid off with care.

There’s an array of clothing inside: a bright green tutu covered in glitter and a stain that just wouldn’t wash out, a fuzzy grey blanket with little spiders on it, and three little rag dolls.

He grabs the first one and laughs. It’s a ball of cloth with a piece of gum on its ‘head’ atop which there are messy pieces of brown yarn meant to serve as hair.

It’s a blob of green covered in red glitter and ribbons and ruffles of all sorts of colors.

In black marker, crooked and messy, it says ‘Dukey.’

Janus picks the next doll up delicately as if he fears it might fall apart at the seams.

Surprisingly well-made for the age of its creator, the little monster smiles up at him in messy stitching. It has spindly legs and it’s entirely black except for the googly eyes and little purple bow on its head. Its body is vaguely human-shaped and dressed in a purple dress that’s almost fallen apart. It has black dots on it.

The final doll he grabs by the neck, growling at the honesty with which its threaded eyes stare up at him, one brown and one yellow.

It has green glitter, the large kind that illuminates the light, covering half of its face and it has a smirk on its face.

His yellow-clad hands hold strings.

One, two, three, four, five. Five pieces of string and an empty spot in his left hand, a hole with no thread running through it.

One is blue, two is black, three is red and four is green. Five is grey.

Six stays empty.

There’s another thread, thicker and longer on this doll, wrapped around its neck.

As he tugs on the blue and the green, the red and black, the noose tightens around the neck of the doll more and more and more until its head twists unnaturally to the side and fluff starts leaking from the tear in its neck.

The filling is an eery shade of red.


End file.
